


A Gerbil Story

by kuonji



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7447291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You're not seriously telling us that that crazy guy turned Dr. McKay into  a gerbil?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gerbil Story

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the sga_flashfic challenge, "Animal".
> 
> "I want a story about gerbils.  Extra points if someone throws a grapefruit at Rodney's head.  Bonus if it happens again."  For [](http://dracostella.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dracostella.livejournal.com/)**dracostella** , because she made me write this. :)
> 
> Orig. Posted 2007.04.15
> 
> Alternative Links:  
> <http://sga-flashfic.livejournal.com/537828.html>

It started with the festival. The, er, Fruit-Throwing festival. With the kids and the bonfires and too much mud.

It was harmless overall, and the natives were quite insistent that they participate. Teyla joined in in good cheer, and Ford was having a blast -- "It's like that holiday in Spain! I've always wanted to do this!" -- but McKay flatly refused.

"First of all, this is the most idiotic activity known to Man. And secondly, about sixty percent of the pulp flying around out there is citrus. Do you _want_ me to die out here on some godforsaken alien planet?"

Sheppard could see his point, but he didn't like leaving a team member alone. He was about to suggest he at least come out for the barbeque when one of the village children ran up to them (no doubt attracted by the kid-seeking aura McKay exuded). He smiled toothily, then, in a show of hospitality, hurled a citrus-y thing about the size of a grapefruit at Rodney's head.

Rodney predictably Freaked Out, reaming out the six-year-old for juvenile homicidal activity, causing him to cry, and of course the child was a Favored Child of the holy whatsit and there was a big fuss that ended with McKay being held prisoner and the rest of the team being escorted quite firmly back through the Stargate.

Which brought them back here, forty minutes later. With John and the remaining members of his team along with SGA-2, armed to the teeth and standing outside the village, demanding to see Dr. McKay.

The 'or else' is left to the imagination, but the villagers are not stupid.

"We will show you where he is being held," says one man, middle-aged, thin as a rail, with that odd metronomal accent that all the natives here have. "However, you must put down your weapons. We are a peaceful people."

"Yeah, peaceful people who kidnap and incarcerate your guests."

The man shuffles uncomfortably. "He insulted the house of the Holy One. He must be punished. I am sorry."

"Well, a lot of good that does us now, doesn't it?" What John wants is to march in there and shoot anyone who got in the way. But Elizabeth's parting words -- "Don't antagonize them, John, or we'll never have a second chance to get Rodney back." -- as well as the grudging instinct that these people are not evil, prevent him.

"Okay, look. I'll go in with one man, unarmed. The other guys stay out here."

The man, having become a reluctant spokesperson, glances around at his fellow villagers before nodding.

"We're not out in fifteen, you come after us," John says to Stackhouse, loud enough to carry. He and Ford hand off their P-90's. They keep their sidearms, and the villagers either don't notice or don't know enough to stop them.

"Going in," he mutters. And they go.

***

The recent rain plus the leftover juices from the festival causes the ground to squelch under their feet. From thirty feet away, even without the villagers' guidance, Sheppard can pick up the marks of the dragging, talkative, size 9 boots. They lead to a hut at the edge of the village, back towards the mountains, and they do not come out. He exchanges a glance with Ford.

One grass hut, they can handle.

"McKay?" he calls from outside the door. The guide Sheppard had picked, a strong-backed girl no more than sixteen, fidgets at their side. "Hey, you in there?" he adds, when no sound is forthcoming.

Images of shock, restraints, or head injuries in mind, he reaches for the door, ignoring the girl's protests, and he steps inside.

The hut is perfectly round and about the size of a stargate lying down, which is probably no coincidence. There is a pallet to one side, scattered baskets, furs, blankets, cloths, and a whisper of muddy fumes. There are rushes on the ground and sunlight through the walls.

There is no McKay.

***

"Don't play games with us." The girl has been reabsorbed by her village, so Sheppard directs his words to the straggles of men and women huddled around them, looking fearfully between Sheppard and Ford and the open doorway. "He's not in there," he says, for Ford's benefit, as well, in case he hasn't figured it out yet.

"But we put him--"

Sheppard hasn't placed the location of the speaker before the voice is hushed by three others. There is frantic murmuring, none of which Sheppard makes out. Finally, a woman steps forward. She is barefoot, the smudge of something passionfruit red across one cheek. "Have you looked inside for Dr. McKay's clothes?" she says. Her eyes are gray.

"What are you talking about, lady?" Ford is noticeably restraining himself from reaching for his weapon. Sheppard doesn't blame him. The aura around them is fearful and smothering.

"Go. Look." She does not elaborate.

"Stay here," Sheppard says, low, before re-entering the hut.

This time, he looks carefully at the household detritus on the ground. One pile resolves itself into Rodney's vest, the distinctive datapad still attached to the back. Pools of blue and khaki show underneath that could be his shirt and pants. John approaches the clothing and bends down to examine it -- when something moves inside. Without thinking, his sidearm is out and pointed at the puddle of Earth-made cloth.

Slowly, cautious now, Sheppard draws the vest aside with one hand.

***

"What is this?" he asks, outside the threshold of Rodney's impromptu off-world prison once more. He holds up what he found inside.

It is about five inches long with ginger-blond fur, four dainty feet, and a thin fur-covered tail. Its large black eyes roll restlessly as it pants through its whiskered mouth.

The villagers step back as one at the same time as Ford leans forward.

"It looks kind of like... a gerbil, sir."

"Thank you, Ford. What do you think it means?" he gestures with his eyes at their whispering companions.

Before he can ask again, there is the sound of stereotypical horror-film cackling from behind them. Both he and Ford train their weapons on the source, and soon a whiskered, disheveled man, who looks like he could be over a hundred, steps around the hut into view. "You have found him," he says.

He has such the stereotypical look of the mad holy hermit that Sheppard isn't even surprised at the murmurs that identify the newcomer: "The Holy One." "The Holy One is here."

"Your Holiness," Sheppard greets him. "You have a naked scientist running around that we want to have back. And by the way, you want to tell us what this rat is doing in McKay's clothes?"

The man cackles again in return. At the sound, the creature crouched in Sheppard's palm utters a tiny squeak and nearly runs itself off its elevated perch. John takes firm hold of its tail and tries not to wince as the sharp little nails scrabble against his skin.

"Okay, you don't have to explain the joke to us, but we're taking McKay back. You can't have much use for him."

The madman's sharp black eyes are dancing.

"The miscreant is punished. You have found what you came for. Take him and go." The order is given in almost a cheerful voice. The man's beady, rodent-like eyes settle on the small animal. "Come back with him in three days. If he still lives."

There is a terrific bang, and smoke rises from where the old man stands. John yells and Ford charges forward, but the white trails clear, and there is no sign of the Holy One left.

"Damn parlor tricks," Sheppard mutters. He can't let slip in front of Ford that he is well and truly spooked. All the mumbo jumbo plus the villagers' obviously agitated faces are getting to him.

They mutter and drift away, but Sheppard sees and grabs the gray-eyed woman by the arm. "What's going on here?" he demands.

She purses her lips and looks toward the others. A few have stopped, watching her in fearful waiting. One, an older man, shakes his head, but he does not come forward. "The Holy One," she says, "he can do things that we do not speak of. Those who defy him are destroyed. Or changed. When you find a matram in an empty hut, it means your friend may never return to you as himself again."

"You're not seriously telling us that that crazy guy turned Dr. McKay into a gerbil?" John raises an eyebrow at his 2IC. Ford is agitated. This whole thing is a ridiculous farce. And yet... John glances down, and the creature in his hand seems riveted on the woman's words.

"No, no," the woman says. "Not a 'gerbil'. The matram, it is important to the Holy One. It is a connection. It is..." She struggles with something. The man who has never left John's peripheral vision makes an impatient sound. "I am not allowed to say more," she finally sighs.

The gerbil-like creature struggles again, and John has to trap it against his chest to keep it from falling in the mud several feet below. He can feel the minute tremors and he imagines he can feel the tiny heart buzzing against the center of his palm.

The woman with the gray eyes takes hold of John's sleeve.

"Care for this creature," she bends in to whisper. "Care for him as well as you ever have for your Dr. McKay. May you return to us in three days." She says it like a benediction. A prayer.

She gives them one last look before she leaves to join the others, and the 'matram' shudders, then burrows into the warmth of John's chest like he belongs there.

***

The reaction they get when they return to Atlantis is predictable.

Outrage. Some panic. Lots of disbelief.

"We searched the whole village. No sign of McKay." Sheppard resists the urge to lean forward and rest his forehead on the table. He doesn't have to add that they never found any more prints, booted, bare, or otherwise, that they can track to Rodney. "He just disappeared."

Elizabeth's eyes are worried but confused.

Stackhouse and the others had come running at the sound of the explosion from the old guy's trick. But no amount of threatening or persuasion could get any more information from the villagers, and the 'Holy One' was nowhere to be found. The villagers had allowed them to search, parting for them not unlike a party for a widow. But they had found nothing.

"And this animal has something to do with it?" Sheppard, Ford, and Stackhouse have repeated everything they knew, including the cryptic words regarding the gerbil-like creature.

They all -- Sheppard, Ford, Stackhouse, Elizabeth, Carson, and Zelenka (as Deputy Chief of Science) -- lean towards the cardboard box John has placed on the table. The creature inside lays on his side, panting hard.

Rodney covered in fur, John thinks. He must be sweating bullets. Only, of course, rodents didn't sweat, did they? Not on their bodies, anyway.

And, oh yeah, this creature wasn't Rodney.

The black eyes swivel around, trying to track them. It is in a land of giants whose heads alone are larger than its body. He struggles to stand, but doesn't quite manage. He squeaks as if in fury.

"What's wrong with him?" Elizabeth rests two fingers on the edge of the box, as if wanting to reach out to the hurting animal, but afraid to touch.

John frowns, and Elizabeth mirrors his expression unconsciously. "I don't know. He's been doing that since we got back."

"Carson, give him a check-up. You can pull anyone you need from the biology division. He's our only clue to where Rodney is right now, so find out all you can."

"Yes, ma'am."

***

It's an hour later before Sheppard has any real excuse to visit the infirmary.

Carson has placed the creature, the 'matram', inside one of his lab mice terrariums. Upright now, it paws at the wood shavings with small handlike feet. It should be more comfortable than the box had been, but John wants to protest anyway. He can't really think of a reason to, so he turns to Carson instead.

"What have you got so far?"

"Well, I'm not a veterinarian, but Dr. Morbur from desert zoology has been helping me. Like Lieutenant Ford said, it does seem remarkably like an Earth gerbil, actually. Similar bone structure, blood content, nearly identical organ placement. I don't have a sample of gerbil DNA, of course, but from its other traits, Dr. Morbur places it as close to _Gerbillus Meriones_."

"Uh, what?"

"Jirds."

"Jirds...?" John makes a face. It sounds like either a particularly disgusting inner organ, or else a schoolyard cussword.

"Jirds are a type of gerbil commonly kept as pets. They're lively little creatures, and this one seems quite empathetic. It would get along lovely with humans, I imagine." The 'lovely creature' gives a well-audible sneeze.

"So, has he managed to tell us anything so far?"

Carson raises his expansive eyebrows. "It can't talk, if that's what you're after. But it does seem highly intelligent."

Well, Rodney was a genius. What did they expect?

John has to shake himself again to keep those and similar thoughts from continuing. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yes. We think dog-like, even."

The creatures squeaks, takes a step, but falls on its side again.

"What's wrong with him?" John asks, frowning at the panting form.

"We're running some tests, but we haven't found anything concrete yet. Who knows, maybe it's just _Rodney_ 's natural clumsiness showing through," Carson says, with a twinkle in his eye.

The matram squeaks again, even as it struggles ineffectually to rise.

***

There isn't much else to say about the little creature until the tests are done. All that's left to do is to figure out how to keep it alive.

Carson has left a dish of water but not yet any food. When asked, he says he was just about to start experimenting with typical mouse food.

"You can't feed him that," Sheppard says.

Carson raises his eyebrows. "And what do you suggest, Major?"

John is at a loss for a moment. "Power bars. Rodney likes them." They stare at each other, realizing what John has said out loud. Carson sighs and reaches for the bag of sunflowers and another of mouse pellets.

"I know what I said before, but trust me, it was a joke. It just doesn't make sense to assume that this wee thing is actually Rodney. And even if it were," he continues, with a stronger voice when John tries to interrupt, "we can't feed a mouse body with human food. The preservatives, the high sugar content... It might poison him. He's already so delicate..."

"But he isn't a mouse," John says. He watches, still uncomfortable, as Carson places some pellets into the terrarium. The creature noses them, then turns away with disinterest. He looks up, and John imagines that the small rodent face is filled with disgust.

***

"How about MREs?" John suggests, and Carson gives him a helpless look. They have moved through various seeds, greens, fruits, and even meats. It's been an hour and still no bite. Literally.

"Maybe he's just not hungry..." The Scottish doctor looks put-upon.

Twenty minutes later, Sheppard feels oddly triumphant when the small gerbil-like creature downs a third of his body weight in mac'n'cheese.

***

The feeling fades half an hour later when the final tests come back.

Carson has also called Elizabeth and Zelenka to the infirmary, but this concerns all the senior staff, so this is not unusual. What makes John sweat is the troubled look on Carson's amiable face, and the way he clears his throat before speaking.

The creature is twenty-four centimeters long (with tail), and it weighs eight-point-three ounces. It seems quite intelligent, agile, possessing excellent senses with the exception of extreme short-sightedness not uncommon in rodents. It is -- and Carson shoots a look at John -- omniverous.

There is some residue of dirt on its fur, but it matches what Sheppard and the others tracked back from the village, so that is no surprise, he tells them. There are no pathogens or communicable diseases that they can find, and no injuries of any kind.

"If he's healthy, why is he so weak?" Elizabeth asks first after the uneasy pause following extends to half a minute long. Carson looks back and forth, between her and the creature.

"It's not a sickness, as far as I can tell. It looks like what ails this creature is simply... old age."

"Old age? What, but Rodney--" John says, before he remembers that this isn't Rodney. This sickly rodent one-two-hundredth of Rodney's size is not the slightly overweight and hypertensioned but otherwise healthy man who strode through the gate with him hours earlier.

"According to Dr. Morbur, the oldest living rodents aren't quite thirty years old." Carson clears his throat, then pauses to rearrange some leftover shreds of the MRE on the table in front of him. "Rodney was a thirty-eight-year-old man."

The statement is as ludicrous as it is devastating.

"This 'matram' is not Rodney McKay," Elizabeth says. Everyone's thinking it, but not even she looks 100% sure anymore.

"How long?" Zelenka asks. His scientist voice is firm.

"Best estimate, considering we know very little about its physiology? Maybe only a few days."

The gerbil-like creature struggles to get up, and John has to reach in and stroke his tiny body over and over before the white rims disappear from his eyes and he settles down.

***

The first thing everyone agrees on is that the matram shouldn't be left unguarded. It seems prudent to keep it isolated and quiet as well. Carson can stay in the isolation chamber with it, but it becomes apparent that someone else will have to take a 'shift'. A consensus of a round of sharp glances between them settles that this should stay with the senior staff.

John chews his lip and Zelenka looks lost. Elizabeth reaches to touch the side of the box, then, as if realizing what she is doing, she leans back.

Carson suggests gently, "Would you like to look after him, Elizabeth? You've had pets, I believe?"

"Oh! Yes, but-- I think dogs are quite different. I..."

"I could do it." John jumps in and offers before he knows what he's saying. To his relief, no one protests. He feels a flutter when the matram straightens up and looks right at him.

"I'll get some things and take watch till tomorrow morning," he says.

***

He notices Elizabeth loitering after Carson has left, and he sidles back up behind. "What's the matter?" he says, and quirks a smile when she jumps.

"Oh, nothing," she replies, and he ribs her before her diplomat smile can freeze into place.

"Something's bothering you."

"What, aside from the fact that our Chief of Science, and a good friend, has gone missing?"

He shrugs at her wry expression and decides to let her off the hook. "Why didn't you want him?" he asks, motioning down with his chin. Elizabeth darts a look into the terrarium automatically. "It's not like he can understand," John reminds her, and she lifts an eyebrow but laughs in self-deprecation.

She looks embarassed. Then prim. "Well," she says, "lets put it this way... I'm not accustomed to sharing intimate space with a male unless we've gotten better acquainted."

The creature pokes its quivering nose in the air, and John, looking down at it, can almost imagine a look of disappointment there.

"Too bad, buddy," he commiserates, and Elizabeth thwaps him in the arm.

***

John brings some books and a change of clothes. An orderly brings him dinner. Carson has moved the matram to a table in the isolation chamber, and John sits himself on the cot beside him.

Fuzzkins, as John begins to call him, is a determinedly active little guy for someone in such a ripe old age. When he's laboriously circled the sides of his prison once (with several panting stops), he sits up and begins rubbing his face obssessively with his front paws.

"Hey, there's looking at the bright side, buddy. You have more hair now."

The matram looks up at him, and John can picture the ferocity in his gaze, before it makes one more swipe, then flops down in a heap looking distinctly bored.

"You wanna hear some War and Peace?" John offers. The matram looks away.

"How about some Johnny Cash?" John holds up his mp3 player, but the matram doesn't twitch a whisker.

"Coffee?" John tries, even though there isn't a drop of the stuff in the infirmary. Like Pavlov's ol' mutt, Fuzzkins looks up. John chuckles to himself, but the matram's cold gaze prompts him to sneak it a Cheet-o, which it promptly gobbles down before curling up with its back turned on John.

They both settle down after that.

It's not quite midnight when Zelenka calls in with an idea.

***

"The statis chamber. We haven't got it quite figured out yet, but I think I can make it work."

"Carson?" Elizabeth inquires.

"I don't see that it would hurt. We have all the data we can get from the creature, and it would certainly be for the good if we can keep it alive a little longer."

"Do it." And Zelenka is away.

It's an obvious notion, and there's no surprise that Elizabeth had wasted no time in okaying it. The matram's eyes are alert during the exchange, and John can almost hear it thinking.

"You hear that? You're going to be okay," he assures it.

Carson gives him a sad look. John isn't sure whether it's because John's assuring a gerbil, or because he's giving platitudes to a dying creature. There's no cure for old age, after all. Putting him in stasis is only putting off the inevitable.

The snag comes at 0340 when Zelenka reports that they've determined how to turn it on, but it apparently only works for humans. (As well as Ancients, they assume.) Though Dr. Vindt had successfully taken a two minute snooze inside with no ill effects, trials with Carson's mice fail to activate the device.

It needs configuring and they don't know how long that will take.

Looks like they need more options.

***

Bright and early, Sheppard leads another visit to the planet. He seeks out the gray-eyed woman and somehow manages to not be surprised when they point her out as the Holy One's 'disciple'.

 _What is with you and the alien priestesses?_ John hears in his head.

"So, ah..."

"Alisa," she prompts.

"John," he replies, keeping it simple. Ford stands watch a couple of yards away, while Teyla is off attempting to schmooze with the reticient locals and/or find more clues.

"So, Alisa. We're not here to cause any trouble. We just want our scientist back."

She laces her hands in front of her stomach, looking demure and sad. "Yes, I know. I've never seen the Holy One change someone from another world. Please believe me when I tell you that we cannot help you, even if we knew how. The Holy One--"

"What exactly does this 'Holy One' do around here, anyway?" John interrupts.

Alisa turns her eyes to look at him from under her lashes. "Miracles."

"Excuse me?"

"He performs miracles. Heals the fevers. Makes the water drinkable. Creates fire from nothing." She lowers her voice. "Punishes those who defy him."

"Sounds to me like someone with access to medicine and flashpowder." Alisa gives him an odd look, which he shrugs "Do you know where he came from?"

"He's been around for as long as I've been alive."

"So, not too long, then." John's half-flirting flattery is automatic, but the woman's smiling response is genuine. Amusement, he thinks. He coughs, self-conscious. "The thing is. Maybe he's just someone from another world with more resources than you. I've met some not-so-honest people before."

Alisa frowns. "I admit his ways are strange. But I will not allow you to speak badly of him. He is doing good for the village." She stands a little straighter. "He has promised to take me as apprentice."

"Goody for you."

Alisa looks pained at his tone, but he doesn't feel like apologizing. She turns abruptly to catch his hand. "John." Her eyes are sad. "You won't find anything here. Return when it is time, and you may have your answer."

John sighs. "Yeah, okay."

He and Ford make their rendevous with Teyla. They return to Atlantis with nothing.

***

The days on the planet are long. Three days should equal about four and a half on Atlantis.

By the third day, the matram isn't breathing too well. On impulse, John decides to upgrade his glass condo with something more comfortable.

It probably makes more sense to give the little guy something of Rodney's (a supposition whose reasons John doesn't want to think too much about), but on a whim he makes a nest out of one of his own shirts instead. The creature snuffles into it and seems to relax.

John reads to him out loud from the journals he finds on Rodney's shelf. He doesn't understand a lot of it, but the creatures reacts to his voice in squeaks and scrabblings. John likes to look for the articles that are red-lined with vicious comments in Rodney's handwriting. The matram squeals and kicks in apparent irritation, and John grins.

Carson reads him medical journals and attempts to tell jokes.

There's a rumor that Elizabeth tries to play chess.

Zelenka continues to work feverishly on the stasis chamber. John stumbles in on him once asking Carson for uppers. More of them, it sounds like. He looks like crap but John doesn't talk him out of it.

'Fuzzkins' is getting worse.

***

It's the end of the fourth day when the matram stops moving. He lays there, breathing shallowly in and out, apparently too exhausted to even pant.

On John's late-night shift, he's paralyzed to see the little guy start to convulse. He taps his radio immediately.

There's a wild moment when he's sorry he called anyone -- his instinctive call for backup. He wants this selfish moment to himself.

But the looks on Elizabeth's and Carson's faces when they run in destroys that thought entirely. They gather around the terrarium, and Carson doesn't protest when John reaches in and lifts out the tiny, struggling body.

"Rodney. Rodney, don't." John fingers the fine fur across the tense body. "You... We never..."

 _Never talked to you enough. Never appreciated you enough._ John hears Carson gasp, and Elizabeth determinedly refuses to wipe her wet cheeks dry.

The black soulful eyes look up at them. Then he quivers once and exhales long and hard -- and is still.

***

It's 0400 when Zelenka hails Elizabeth on the radio. The alterations to the stasis chamber are complete. Too late.

"I'm sorry, Radek. It's too late," is all she replies. The tiny cold body is still in John's hands.

There's shocked silence from the other end. Then the radio clicks off.

***

"He's dead, isn't he?"

John restrains himself -- just barely -- from knocking out what teeth are left in the old man's face. He'd been here to meet them when John had come back with SGA-2 as backup. No theatrics this time. He just strolls up to them at the edge of the village, wearing a wily, gap-toothed, shit-eating grin.

The crazy-haired geezer shakes his head, as if sad. "Didn't keep the deal, did you? Didn't bring him back."

"Listen, you old coot--" John advances on him, threatening. The villagers murmur, not willing to interfere, but also obviously not willing to let John 'take care' of the old man. "We'd like to ask your holiness some questions," he grits out through clenched teeth.

John sees it this time, the old man reaching in his sleeve for what's probably another dose of flash-powder. He doesn't even hesitate before he launches himself forward and slams the aged body into the ground. Smoke explodes around him, but he keeps his hold on the now-struggling old trickster.

When the smoke clears, there's cries of shock. John blinks watering eyes and sees the villagers staring.

"Yeah, here's your Holy One," John says. "Not so miracle-working now, is he?" He's got the old guy sprawled beneath him, dirty bare feet kicking. He catches sight of a handful of paper twists spilling from his gnarled fingers.

John studies the pellets. They look like the mini crackers he'd played with as a kid. He grabs one and throws it hard at the ground a few feet away. Everyone jumps back when it explodes on impact, releasing thick white smoke and startlingly loud bang.

There's a deafening silence.

A kid with one eyebrow higher than the other is the first to step forward and pick up another of the pellets. But it's Alisa who's the first to throw another of them on the ground.

This time, the explosion precedes murmurings that sound angrier and angrier.

And that's when all heck breaks loose.

***

There's an earth-shattering explosion behind them.

They hadn't brought any C-4 with them, and as far as John knows, the natives don't have the technology to produce explosives of that scale themselves. He eyes the old geezer, but he looks -- not surprised, exactly, but definitely puzzled.

"Ford! Jenkins!" John motions his men to stay close to the prisoner. Then he goes to see what the hell's going on.

The place is in bedlam.

A ten-yard fissure has opened up in the ground, like a miniature earthquake has torn the earth up. It runs from a few paces out of where John's standing, dead-ending under the now-collapsed Holy One's hut, and there's, jesus, probably close to a hundred matrams boiling out of it, the little critters running out of the remains of the rush floor like mad.

John hears people yelling in the dust-choked air. Marines are gripping their weapons and looking bewildered and nervous. The villagers are staring at the fissure in fright, the ones scrambling away from it running into the ones pushing forward for a look. One boy yells as he loses his footing and just catches the edge, but his mother has him, and Teyla's there, lending a hand.

John does a headcount of his men and is relieved not to come up short. He's about to catch someone for a report when the screaming starts.

At first, he thinks someone else has fallen in, because he sees several villagers who have ventured close pointing down, some even getting on their hands and knees and reaching in.

There's a knot of people in one spot, and a huge commotion. When cheers erupt, John is shocked to see a pale, naked, figure, pulled up. His eyes are watery, and his long hair is grungy, but he looks happier than anyone.

"My son! Oh, my son, he has returned to me!"

There are other outcries, and more people are pulled out, one by one, by willing hands.

John sees Alisa in the back of the crowd, hands over her mouth. He calls to her but she's clearly in shock. He doesn't have time to be gentle, and he grabs her shoulder. "What is going on here?" She responds without even looking at him, and in a whisper that John can barely make out in the hubbub:

"The ones who were taken. They are returned to us."

***

He hears a curse, and when he spins toward the noise, something shoves bodily into him, sending him sprawling.

Jenkins is yelling. "He's getting away!"

John rolls to his feet in time to see the old geezer running pell-mell towards the road leading to the gate.

Ford whips by to head him off. Alisa, ten yards away, kicks over a pile of melon-sized orange-ish fruits into the old geezer's path. He's down in a split second with Ford on top of him, and the grinning lieutenant has him hogtied in under ten seconds.

Alisa has a look of utter satisfaction on her face.

People are crying out in alternating disbelief and joy; children are squealing with excitement; the old geezer is bawling; there's mud everywhere and the fruit things are rolling all over creation and down the fissure -- and above it all is a high tenor voice, trained by years of hypochondria, paranoia, and plain irritability into a distinguished whine.

"Ow! Owowowowow! Yes. Yes, of course. Let's not forget the rain of _deadly fruits_! Because, you know what, my week was just not perfect enough without that. As if playing go-fer for a brain-dead _madman_ weren't enough... Failed! You all-- stop hugging that disgusting child-- you fail! Bombs From Rat Droppings 101, you're _all_ failed! One does not, I repeat, _not_ , set off explosives when the instructor is _under the main supports_..."

"Jesus Christ, is that--?" John is in motion without even finishing his own sentence. He's sliding down the fissure wall, new dirt rubbing red lines down his uniform. The ground gives slightly when he lands, and the light darkens above with excited team members peering down.

He looks at the man in front of him, currently fighting his way free from a pile of dirt, mesh wire, and fractured wood, continuing to mutter dire threats against the whole galaxy. He's thinner than John remembers, pinched and angry and naked as the day he was born. He shakes off the last of the debris, straightens, and stares when he catches sight of John.

"You-- You're here? But why-- What--" He stutters before effortlessly picking up his rant in a different vein. "What the hell happened to 'Never leave a man behind'?! Do you have any idea what I've been going through? I've been stuck here eating, god, rat brains _a la carte_ , while you waltz around--"

Instead of answering, John takes one step forward and wraps his arms around McKay as far as they will go, ignoring the squeak of half-protest that causes.

McKay shudders once, exhaling long and loud, then burrows into John's chest like he belongs there.

***

"You thought I _turned into_ a _gerbil_? Are you all _INSANE_?!"

  
END.

**Author's Note:**

> The oldest rodents living in captivity are the naked mole-rats (Heterocephalus glaber), the oldest of which are now at least 26 years old.


End file.
